The history of man has been a history of unrest and of wars. The whole saga of humanity’s past is a tale of sorrow, pain, violence and murder.
It is not that only today the question has arisen how peace can be established in the world; this question has always been there. It is not a modern question; it is man’s eternal, timeless question. In three thousand years, man has fought fifteen thousand wars. Man has gone on fighting. Till now there has not been a single age of true peace. And the few short intervals that we call peace—those too are false peace. In that very peace the preparations for war go on. In times of war we fight, and in times of peace we prepare for the next war.
A neighbor asked a small child, “I see you always collecting coins in a little box. Where do you get those coins, and what do you do with them when you have collected enough?” The child said, “Every night I have to drink medicine and oil to keep my liver working. And when I gulp down a dose, I get a reward of four annas. Those coins I put in my box.”
The neighbor asked, “And what do you do with the money you collect?” The child said, “With that money my father buys more medicine and oil. He buys again the liver-tonic.” The neighbor was astonished. “What a vicious circle!” he said.
So it is with us: a few days of peace—and in that peace we make arrangements for another war. Then we fight. And we fight in order to find peace. Then when we are ‘peaceful,’ we prepare again for war. In wartime we cry for peace; in peacetime we clamor for war. A very strange tale, a tale of circles!
And if this were only today’s question—if it were merely contemporary—we might find some mistake in the modern world and correct it. But the question is perennial. One cannot simply say that because the world has become materialistic, therefore there are wars. Wars have always been. Whether in the time of Rama or of Krishna, whether it was the ‘Rama-rajya’ or any other rajya—wars have always been. They are not the product of materialism. Nor is it true, as some say, that because people have become unbelievers in God, have stopped believing in Atman-Paramatman, therefore there are wars. That is false, because wars have always been—and even those who believed in Atman and Paramatman fought wars.
First, then, I want to say: this problem is eternal. It has haunted the entire humanity up to now. It is not a modern question. And whoever mistakes it for a modern question will not be able to find its solution. The disease is ancient. Therefore we must search the whole history of the human race for its cause. What could the cause be? From wars, nothing is obtained except suffering; then what attracts man to war, to unrest, to killing? What flavor, what enjoyment is there? We need to understand two or three things about this.
First: One morning, from Tokyo airport, an airplane took off. As it rose, the passengers felt uneasy; the plane was flying most erratically. Then, with a violent jerk, it climbed up. And from the pilot’s cabin came loud peals of laughter—such laughter as if he had gone mad. A passenger peeped in and asked, “What on earth are you laughing at? You’re rolling on the floor!” The pilot said, “A huge joke has happened! They had locked me in a madhouse. I escaped from there—and I am thinking how much trouble the asylum staff must be in, not knowing where I’ve vanished! What a joke on those poor fellows!”
Do you understand what must have happened to the passengers? The pilot is insane, escaped from an asylum, and has taken the plane into the sky—and he says the joke is on the asylum staff. Forget the staff for a while—what of the people sitting in that plane? For them the joke is far more deadly.
Up to now, humanity has been in almost the same condition. The helm of society is in the hands of politicians, and the politician has been, from the beginning, a madman—deranged, neurotic. Try as we may to create peace in the world, until there is a radical change in the very direction of politics, no peace can be established. The politician is fundamentally insane. This politician is, at the root, deranged. He needs treatment—so that a healthy politician may be born. Otherwise, no prayer, no proposal can bring peace to the world. The tiller of society is in the hands of madmen! The reins of humanity rest in insane hands.
Why is the politician mad? Understand this. For thousands of years we have worshiped politicians; that’s why it is difficult even to hear me calling them mad. But the very desire to dominate others is proof of a deranged mind. The longing to ride upon everyone’s chest is the symptom of a diseased psyche. A healthy man neither wants to be anyone’s master, nor to sit on anyone’s head.
The world’s insane gather in the various capitals of the world. And all the power is in the hands of these madmen. Look back: Nadir, Genghis, Tamerlane; Stalin or Hitler or Mussolini or Tojo or Mao Tse-tung—if a day ever dawns when humanity becomes sane, can these people be called anything other than mad? Can Hitler and Mussolini be called anything other than insane—or Napoleon and Alexander? All these madmen have hounded the human race. If they cannot lead us into peace, how can they not drag us into war?
What is the politician’s aspiration? What does he want? He wants shakti—power. He wants his fist on the necks of others. The more people over whose backs he can climb, the more ownership he can claim, the more gratified he feels. This is a highly pathological desire. One person becoming the owner of another is itself dangerous, itself indecent. Whoever craves such a thing cannot be healthy.
Yet, the more people a man rules, the higher the post he occupies, the more our heads bow at his feet.
As long as humanity keeps bowing at the feet of the politician, there is no hope of peace. If we want to save the world from war, we must change our values regarding the politician. If we go on honoring those who create war, unrest, and violence, how can wars cease? Our values are wrong; our reverence is misplaced. And our reverence is given only to politicians, to no one else. Why is politics honored so much? What is the need? What is the meaning?
In a house there is a cook. He looks after the family’s meals, brings provisions from the market, and tries to cook the best food. Good—he is a cook; he deserves respect. A big hotel serves five hundred meals a day; there too is a head cook who oversees everything. He too deserves respect. There is a food minister in a province—the province’s grand cook. Why should we bend our heads at his feet? He deserves no more respect than any skilled cook. Why this mad, extravagant veneration?
The day humanity becomes a little healthy, the food minister of a province will get only as much respect as a competent master cook deserves—no more. Anything beyond that is wrong. And the same applies to other ministers. A health minister should be respected as a village doctor is respected. Yes, he oversees the health of a whole province. A sanitation minister should be respected like the village’s chief sweeper. He is the province’s sweeper; he looks after cleanliness for all. He should be honored—because he is doing a job.
But our honor has gone out of all proportion. If that grand cook of the province sneezes, it must be in all the newspapers. If his shoe is lost, it must be photographed. The entire nation should discuss that the minister’s shoe is missing, or that the minister’s child has caught a cold, or that his peon was run over by a car today. Such honor draws all manner of mad, ambitious people into the direction of politics. The ambitious crazies see only one road—head for the capital! One must get to Delhi!
I have heard that even a dog in Banaras went mad in the same way. Animals go insane by imitating men. Living with men, even animals pick up bad habits. A dog lived for a few days in a leader’s house; his head went wrong. Living with the leader and seeing his photograph in the newspapers, the dog too felt, “My picture should be in the paper.” He went to some village dogs and said, “Make me a leader and send me to Delhi!”
The dogs began to laugh. “Since when did you pick up the bad habits of men?” they asked. He told others; they mocked him: “He’s gone crazy!”
He was deeply troubled, for he wanted to go to Delhi, not as an ordinary traveler, but as a leader. If the dogs elected him and sent him, in Delhi he would be honored. But the dogs laughed.
One night, when his master, the leader, was fast asleep, the dog went near and whispered, “Master! My heart too longs to go to Delhi. Teach me the tricks to become a leader so I can reach Delhi. I ask the dogs, they laugh.”
In his sleep the leader heard and said, “Son, if you want to go to Delhi, it isn’t easy. There are techniques, trade secrets. Not everyone can reach Delhi. It’s no joke that you think you will get there! Reaching moksha is easier; reaching Delhi is very difficult. But if you insist—you are not an ordinary dog, you are a great leader’s dog, my dog—I will tell you the tricks.
“First thing: go among the dogs and spread the news that the dog community is in danger. Just as some say Islam is in danger, others say Hindu dharma is in danger, or India is in danger, or China is in danger—the first sutra of politics is: create an air of danger. Go, tell the dogs that the dog race is under grave threat. The municipal mayor is thinking of giving out poison pills to kill dogs. The enemies of dogs are after them. Go, spread this propaganda.”
The dog said, “That’s right. I had not thought of this.”
“And then, tell them that you have resolved—whether your life remains or not—you will save the dog race. Tell them that too.
“If you find little puppies—college-going pups—tell them: Children, your future is in danger! You will not find jobs even after education! It is necessary to take power away from the old. Incite the young against the elders. And declare: I have pledged myself to serve the coming generation; I am your servant. Stir the pups against the old.
“If you meet the female dogs, tell them: Ladies, you must have equal rights with the males. Do not remain behind. Equality! All over the world women have claimed equal rights; how long will you lag? Revolt! Revolution! I am the servant of womanhood; I want to serve you.
“If you meet poor dogs, inflame them against the rich dogs. Teach them communism. If you meet rich dogs, say: Be vigilant! The poor are about to revolt. But do not be afraid—as long as I am here, I will not let your honor be touched.”
The dog asked, “What if both poor and rich dogs happen to be present together—what shall I say then?”
“You fool,” said the leader, “then speak of Sarvodaya—that we seek the uplift of all. We want the uplift of the poor and of the rich. We want the uplift of the thief and the moneylender. We want the uplift of the sick and of the doctor. We want the welfare of all. This is the last trick: if all are present, speak of Sarvodaya; if only one is present, speak of his ‘odaya’—his rise.”
The dog was astonished. “Only this much? And we were worrying for nothing!” He ran out and began work that very night.
These things slipped out of the leader in his sleep. He must have been a somewhat raw leader—for the true, seasoned leaders do not tell the truth even in sleep.
The dog started his campaign. A storm swept the dogs of Kashi; a movement began. The dogs were terrified. Their lives were in danger! They became fearful, and they began to beg him, “Save us! You are our leader now; go to Delhi as our representative.” The dog refused again and again. He began to wear a khadi cap, he folded his hands and kept saying, “What will I do in Delhi? I am a servant of the people; what have I to do with Delhi?” But the more he refused, the more the dogs pressed him, garlanded him, and cried, “You must go to Delhi!” At last, out of ‘helplessness,’ he agreed—just as all leaders ‘helplessly’ agree to go to Delhi.
The dogs sent word to the Delhi dogs: “Our leader is coming; he is an elected leader. Prepare a worthy reception.” The Delhi dogs were delighted. They were tired of welcoming human leaders. “Our own leader is coming—what joy!” they said. “Be assured. We will arrange everything—reservations in the circuit house and all.” “But when will you arrive?” they asked.
The message came back: “It will take a month.” The poor dog planned to go on foot. He had not yet learned to use human vehicles. He set out on foot for Delhi.
The Delhi dogs were amazed: instead of a month, he arrived in seven days. “We are astonished,” they said. “Human leaders take a lifetime to get to Delhi; you came in seven days!”
The dog said, “Don’t ask what I suffered. Now I understand! When I left Kashi, the dogs accompanied me to the village boundary. At the next village, their dogs set upon me and did not let me rest. Before those could even escort me to their boundary, the dogs of the next village were chasing me. All the way to Delhi, dogs from one village after another were on my heels. They would escort me to their boundary and turn back, and the next lot would begin the chase. I fled for my life without a moment’s rest—that is why I reached in seven days. But speak no more; my breath is short, my life seems to be slipping—I feel close to death.”
The Delhi dogs said, “Don’t be frightened. Often leaders come to Delhi and die. Delhi is the grave of many leaders. For thousands of years it has been a graveyard. A leader comes here—and dies. It is very hard for a leader to leave here alive.”
Saying this, the dog died.
What happened afterward I don’t know. But whether a dog must get to Delhi or a man—the tricks are the same, the road is the same. And apart from madness, what else could give a man such an intense craving for power, position, prestige?
Why do I say this craving is born of madness? Because a healthy man is delighted simply in his being. His very being is joy. The unhealthy, the diseased man has no joy in being. He who has joy in his own being—he alone is healthy; the one settled in himself is healthy. He who finds no joy in himself tries to become happy by giving pain to others. He tries to feel good by torturing others. The more he can hurt, the more he feels, “I am somebody, I can do something.” The madman seeks the pleasure of oppressing others.
And to oppress others—if a man becomes a husband, at most he can torture his wife. If a wife goes mad with the urge to torture, at most she can torture her husband. If, by the children’s misfortune, some are born, then together they can torture the children. What more? If this does not suffice, a man turns to oppressing a large crowd. Then he has no choice but to become a politician, for only the politician has a crowd under his control.
Those with a tendency to give pain, to be sadists, to torture—these start their journeys toward the capitals. Not only in India—in Moscow, Washington, Peking, London, Paris, and Delhi—the same thing happens. All the ambitious, diseased people of the world gather in the capitals. And among them, the maddest becomes the chief—because the strongest madman subjugates the lesser madmen. Hence the world has drifted through war upon war for three thousand years. How can there be peace in such hands? Their very value depends upon war continuing.
Hitler wrote that great leaders are born of war. He wrote: great leaders are born of war. Without war a leader cannot become great. When war erupts, danger arises. With danger, the entire populace folds its hands at the leader’s feet: “You alone can save us! You are our God! Without you who will protect us?” And the leader grows bigger and bigger.
So Hitler wrote in his autobiography: if there is no real danger, no real war, then anyone who wants to be a leader should manufacture false dangers, stage fake wars.
In Vietnam and Korea, fake wars are being run—without need, without purpose. Between India and Pakistan—fake wars, meaningless. Between India and China—the same story.
No one can become a great leader otherwise. Mao cannot become a great leader if he does not keep war simmering. With wars, Mao becomes great. If, in the last ten years, China had not been mischievous, you might not have even heard Mao’s name. If Hitler had not unleashed the Second World War, you might not have heard of Hitler. If Genghis Khan had not slaughtered people, how would you have heard his name? If Tamerlane had not entered capitals to behead infants—wherever he went, he had ten thousand children beheaded, their heads pierced onto spears, so that when his procession passed, ten thousand little heads bobbed on spear tips. People asked, “Tamerlane, what are you doing? Why kill children?” He said, “So that this land will remember that Tamerlane once came here.”
Do not be angry if I call Tamerlane mad. He is mad.
Hitler had the skin of a very beautiful woman flayed and made into the shade of his table lamp—for Hitler’s lamp could not be covered with ordinary paper, leather, or plastic. If I call this Hitler mad, do not be offended.
Hitler personally ordered that five hundred Jews be killed each day. He killed five million Jews in his lifetime. Daily, five hundred—his religious vow. But killing one by one became expensive—killing and then disposing of the bodies—so he built gas chambers and electric crematoria. Lock five hundred inside, press a button, and they become ash. No need to shoot, no need for soldiers. He built gas chambers across Germany and burned five million Jews.
Stalin, in his time, killed six million people in Russia.
If I call these men mad, do not be offended. The people you lock in asylums are children beside them. Compared to them, the madness of those in asylums is nothing. As long as such madmen rule, how can there be peace in the world?
In ancient days the danger was less, for these madmen did not have much power. Now they do. They have atom bombs, hydrogen bombs. Unprecedented power has fallen into their hands. They will not spare humanity—they will surely bring a kind of peace to the world—the peace of the cremation ground. No one left—and total silence.
A woman brought her child to a doctor early one morning. While she discussed her illness, the child slipped into the laboratory. The doctor, nervous, kept talking with the woman; from inside came noises—a bottle crashing, a chair falling, pages being torn. The doctor was anxious, but the woman didn’t seem worried at all hearing her child’s sounds.
When a large cabinet crashed and many vials broke, the woman said, “It seems Munna has gone inside. Is there any danger? Any disturbance?” The doctor said, “Now be at ease. Munna will very soon reach the cupboard where the poison is kept. Very soon there will be perfect peace. Don’t worry; sit quietly.” The woman panicked and rushed in, but by then Munna had drunk a vial of poison—and he was finished.
Man’s condition is the same. These political ‘Munna’ have reached the cupboard of poison. If they drank alone and died, there would be no danger—but along with them, the whole of humanity will have to die. It was alright when they were breaking a few bottles and tearing a few registers—but now they are at the poison cupboard. Since the day a politician’s hand reached the atom bomb, the means to tranquilize humanity fell into their hands—absolute ‘peace’ will come. Munna will very soon be quiet—because he has reached the poison bottles. But along with him, all of humanity will be quiet. And that will not be the peace we have longed for and dreamed of for thousands of years. Not the peace in which there are flowers and fragrance; not the peace where there are songs and dances; it will be the peace of the graveyard, of the cremation ground—dead silence, because no one remains.
Great power has fallen into human hands—hence the danger. If this power remains with mad politicians, there is little hope that this earth will survive beyond ten or twenty-five years. If it does, it will be by sheer coincidence, by miracle.
Fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are ready. One hydrogen bomb destroys all life within forty thousand square miles—not in an ordinary way, but in an extraordinary way. It does not only kill people—it annihilates insects, small creatures, plants—life itself.
At home we heat water; at a hundred degrees it boils and turns to steam. If we put someone in water at a hundred degrees, what happens to his mind? What poetry arises? What joy springs within? But a hundred degrees is no heat. At fifteen hundred degrees iron melts and flows like water. If we put someone into that—what would happen? But fifteen hundred degrees is still nothing; at twenty-five hundred degrees iron turns to vapor. If twenty-five hundred degrees were ignited in your house—what then? Yet even twenty-five hundred degrees is nothing. A hydrogen bomb explosion generates heat of one hundred million degrees. One hundred million degrees—and the destructive field spans forty thousand square miles.
Such fifty thousand hydrogen bombs lie in the hands of politicians who look plain and simple, smiling for photographs day and night. What will they do with them? What will be the result? What will happen to this world? This earth is small. For the destructive power we possess, even seven earths would be too few. Humanity’s number is small—only three to three and a half billion. We have arranged weapons to kill twenty-five billion.
Ask them why such a vast arrangement? They will say, “It is not good to risk a mistake. Suppose a man does not die the first time—we shall kill him again, a third time. We have arranged to kill each person seven times.” Though no one has ever needed to be killed twice, still, no mistakes! These are mathematicians, intelligent, calculating. They did all the math—“Arrange to kill each person seven times, so that none survive.”
We have surplus capacity for murder and destruction. And in whose hands? In the hands of those whose minds are filled neither with love nor with joy nor with peace—who are sick, unhealthy, deranged. With knives alone they did enough wonders; with swords, they did astounding feats; with small guns, they trampled the world. Now they hold such power that what they can do defies computation.
Wars cannot stop if the politician remains as he is. The value of the politician must be reduced to zero. His prestige must become nothing. He should be respected only as a functionary—a cook, a sweeper, a doctor, a shopkeeper. Anything more is dangerous. Because honor itself attracts mad people to politics. The ambitious flock there because honor, power, prestige can be had. If the world is to be saved from wars, politics must be devalued utterly.
In ancient Rome it once happened that the women invented such hideous, vulgar garments that to look at them became offensively ugly. A craze started. Naked they would have been less obscene than in those new clothes.
The emperor was at a loss. He asked his ministers for counsel. They said, “Impose a fine of a hundred coins on any woman wearing such clothes.” The king announced that from a certain date, whosoever wore such clothes would be fined a hundred.
He thought the women would be frightened. Why would women be frightened of fines? The reverse occurred. Any woman fined would look at others and say, “I have been fined three times!” Another would say, “What’s your count? I’ve been fined seven times!” The fine became prestige. Poor women began shouting at their husbands, “Bad luck that I married you—we haven’t been fined even once! When will my fine happen? Buy me the clothes!” The richer the woman, the more daily fines she paid. It became a status symbol—so many fines, wife of so-and-so, so rich! Tailors hung signs: “Fines guaranteed with our designs.”
Within three months the town went mad. Poor women too took to wearing them—else people would call them poor. Women began asking one another, “You haven’t been fined yet? That neighbor hasn’t been fined even once—poor thing!” The king was terrified. He went to a fakir and asked, “What is this madness? We imposed fines to stop them!”
The fakir said, “Do this. Put up notices everywhere: Prostitutes are exempt from fines for wearing such garments. They are granted full freedom.” Placards went up: “Prostitutes may wear these clothes—no fines.” On the third day, those garments vanished from the town. No woman was willing to be counted a prostitute. The prestige of those clothes became zero.
Near a girls’ high school by a busy highway, the girls used to cross the road straight through traffic; it was dangerous. The principal tried to persuade them: “Don’t cross here. Go to the intersection a little distance away.” The girls did not listen; accidents increased.
The principal consulted a psychologist. He gave a signboard: “Cattle Crossing.” The moment it was installed—this is where animals cross—the girls stopped crossing there and went to the intersection. Who would want people to think cows and buffaloes were passing?
The value of a thing must fall. To dissuade mad, ambitious people from entering politics, the value of the politician must be reduced. Fewer photos, fewer speeches, fewer headlines, less talk across the land. People should become wary of politicians as they are wary of diseases. Parents should say to their children, “Come inside—the leader is passing.” If a rally is happening nearby, the family should shut the doors—“Stay inside; there’s a rally.” We need protection from the leader, from the politician.
First point: the devaluation of the politician.
Once Buddha entered a village. He was a bhikkhu. The king heard and asked his minister, “Should I go to receive him? Would it be proper?” The minister said, “I am astonished that you ask. He who has valued all wealth at two coppers, who sees gold as dust, who gives no price to prestige, nothing to rank—when he comes to a village, all should go to welcome him. You should go, so that people may know that real honor is not for position but for humility; not for ego, but for egolessness.”
The king asked his queen, “The minister says I should go—but is it proper? I am a sovereign, and to welcome a beggar?” The queen said, “You should be ashamed to call him a beggar. We are the beggars—begging day and night, ‘More, more, more.’ He is not a beggar; he is the emperor. He has stopped asking. He asks for nothing. All begging has ceased in him. We beggars must go to receive that emperor.” The emperor went to welcome him.
A world must be born in which those emperors are honored who possess nothing—rather than those emperors who possess rank and prestige.
To honor the politician is to unbalance the whole mind of a nation, to push all humanity toward madness. Because then even children’s minds are drawn that way.
Radhakrishnan was a teacher; he became President. All over India teachers began celebrating Teachers’ Day. By mistake I was in Delhi and some teachers invited me. I went and said, “I am astonished. A teacher becomes a politician—and you celebrate a teachers’ day? What honor of the teacher is in this? It is an insult to the teacher—that a teacher did not find joy in being a teacher and turned toward politics. The day a President resigns and becomes a teacher in a school—saying, ‘I don’t want to be President, I want to be a teacher’—celebrate Teachers’ Day. Now there is no need. The day a President says he wants to teach, that day the teacher is honored. But when a school teacher says, ‘I want to be a minister, a President’—what honor of the teacher is that? It is the honor of the politician.”
When one teacher becomes President and we honor him, other teachers go mad: “Let us become something too; if not minister, then deputy minister; if not, at least deputy director or director—something! Our elder became President; one teacher became President; now another has become President; now all teachers run in circles so that a third teacher may become President.”
If we keep producing such madness by honoring politicians, there will never—never—be peace. The ambitious man wants to fight; he does not want to be quiet. If he becomes quiet, ambition dies.
So first: the respect given to politicians should vanish. If we have a little intelligence, we must free ourselves from honoring politicians—if we want to escape wars and establish peace. The day the politician ceases to be honored, the day people will say to anyone who tries to lead them into war, “Get down! You have no right to lead anyone into war!”—that day wars will cease. Now, the more a politician drags a nation toward war, the more honor he gets. The country, mad as it is, says, “Here is a real leader, our savior, our protector.” That is the first point.
The second point—equally essential: Even if politics is devalued, alone it will not suffice. Up to now we have advised the good man, the noble man, the sannyasin: withdraw from life. The good withdraw; the bad run the world. The good vacate places; the bad occupy them. The saint flees; the un-saint sits firm. The good retreat, the bad remain. It is thus inevitable that whenever power rests in evil hands, there will be wars and unrest. Power should be in the hands of the good; the reins of life should be in the hands of a healthy, saintly character. But how will this be? No saintly person will come to you and say, “Give me your vote; I am a good man.” How? All over the world, those able to advertise their own egos come and say, “Vote for me; I want the chair. I am good; the other is bad.” They gather in numbers and concentrate power. The good will not come to your door to say so.
Engrave this as a criterion: when someone comes proclaiming, “I am a good man,” it is the sign of a bad man. When someone asks for your vote, it is the sign of a cunning, dishonest man. All over the world we must understand—if power is to be given to the good, he will not ask for it. You will have to go to him and beg: “Accept our request; there is this little work to be done—please do it. We wish to place this responsibility in your hands.”
The world must now learn to entrust work to the good. Then the bad may step back. But the good will not beat drums, stand before your house, and fold hands for votes. To persuade the good to accept power is difficult. This is the danger; the bad get the opportunity. The good will not come; the bad stand in front and shout.
Worse: two bad men shout. You choose between them; they are cousins. It makes no difference whether you choose A or B—Congress or Jan Sangh or Socialist or Communist—they are all cousins, all men intoxicated with power. One shouts, “Vote for me!” Another shouts, “No, for me!” You choose among them—and the mistake is made.
We must prepare public consciousness across the world to search out those who can run life and give direction. Catch hold of them, beseech them—they will refuse, fold their hands, and say, “Forgive us; we are fine where we are”—but we must bring the good from their huts, their hermitages, their forests. We must place power in their hands. Then the world can be saved—otherwise not. No matter how many conferences politicians hold, how many UNOs are created, how much they shout, “We want peace!”—nothing will come of it. The mad pilot is at the controls, and we are all in the plane.
Second, then: the direction of life must be placed in the hands of the good. If that can be done, world peace can be established today; there is no need to wait for tomorrow.
But for thousands of years the pattern has been that the good withdraw. The good do not say, “I will do something; I will go somewhere.” They quietly slip into a corner, stand behind, indifferent to standing in front. The bad dress up, don the leader’s clothes, step forward, smile as leaders smile, fold their hands as leaders fold them. And the simple, innocent people are deceived by the smile, by the clothes. They do not know that white clothes are used to hide black hearts, that smiles are used to cover evil intentions, that joined hands are tricks to conceal a giant ego. This is how it has been—and if it goes on, I do not see how world peace can be.
We must awaken public intelligence everywhere—teach people what to do: dissolve the honor of the politician; and request the good to strengthen the hands of life, to take the reins. Only in the hands of those without a hankering for power can power be safe; only in the hands of those who value power not at all can power be used rightly; only those who have no desire to sit above others are worthy to be seated above. The world must be entrusted to the good, the simple, the straightforward—or it will not be saved. There is no other possibility. These are the two things.
And the third thing.
Two things—devalue politics; enlist the good in shaping life; save them from fleeing. And third: you must lift your own mind above the foolishness and whirlpool of politics. Because we are all, in small meanings, small politicians. As far as our power reaches, we are emperors there; there we play politics. If every person plays politics within his little circle, then there will be quarrel, conflict, violence in those circles—and all that violence, gathered together, becomes great wars.
So, thirdly, I say to you personally: wherever politics exists in your life… for politics means dishonesty, cunningness, hypocrisy—the crooked way, never straight and clear. Each person should strive to live with a straight, clear face—as he is—without garments, without covers—joined to life along straight paths. Each person should remove politics from his life. Then, on a larger scale, politics can be removed from the world.
Hearing the first two, you might feel I have spoken of others; and listening to others’ faults is very delightful. It feels good to think, “This is about the people of Delhi.” But you too have made a small Delhi without knowing. You think, “This is about ministers”—and yet, given the chance, you too become a minister. Given the chance, you descend into the same cunningness without noticing.
How do you behave with your servant? With your child? With your wife? What are you doing to those weaker than you, those under your power? Whatever you do there, the politician does on a larger scale. Therefore, each person must free his life from politics.
In the end, politics simply means ambition.
And religion means non-ambition.
The politician lives to get ahead of others. The religious lives to get ahead of himself. The politician says, “I must go beyond others.” The religious says, “I must go beyond myself—what have I to do with others? Let me not be where I am today. Let me transcend myself. What I have known today, let me know more tomorrow. What I have lived today, let me live more deeply tomorrow. Let the depth I touched today be deeper tomorrow; the height I reached today be higher tomorrow.” No comparison with anyone, no conflict, no competition. There are only two kinds of people in the world—political and religious. Two kinds of minds—political and religious. Search within: are you not also a political mind? Are you not a politician inside?
Transform the politician within you into the religious; devalue politics in the whole world; and entrust the direction and reins of life to saintly, simple, straight people. If these three things can happen, world peace is easier than anything else. And if these three do not happen, abandon the dream of peace. Wars will continue—and perhaps the final war will arrive, after which there will be no wars.
One last tale, and I will finish. Albert Einstein died and reached heaven. You must have heard—he died. He was the one who launched the whole lineage of the atom bomb—that old philosopher-scientist, a wonder. God was waiting to ask him about the earth. He asked Einstein, “What is the state of the world? I hear a third world war is about to happen. My heart trembles; my sleep is ruined. Even sleeping pills do not help. I am in trouble. I feel I might go mad.”
Einstein said, “Why worry? We on earth sleep well—why are you troubled? About the third war, it is hard to say. But about the fourth, I can tell.”
God was stunned. “You cannot say about the third—and you can about the fourth?”
Einstein said, “About the third nothing can be said; about the fourth, one thing can be stated with certainty—there will be no Fourth World War.”
Because to wage war, men are ultimately needed. Without men, how can there be war? And after the third, there is little chance of any men remaining. If things go on as they have, the old Einstein is right—the fourth will never be. There will be peace in the world—immense peace. The moon and stars will be very peaceful—man has made too much noise. Perhaps then trees will grow and blossoms will open, and trees will feel great peace—man had created too much disturbance. Mountains and glaciers and rivers will flow in peace. But that peace will not be experienced by man. Others may know it—not man.
If man wants peace, he must do something positive, constructive—he must transform his way of life, his modes and manners. Till now, his way of conducting life has been sick, deranged, mad.
These few things I have said.
You have listened with such silence and love—I am deeply obliged.
In the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated in all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
The history of man has been a history of unrest and of wars. The whole saga of humanity’s past is a tale of sorrow, pain, violence and murder.
It is not that only today the question has arisen how peace can be established in the world; this question has always been there. It is not a modern question; it is man’s eternal, timeless question. In three thousand years, man has fought fifteen thousand wars. Man has gone on fighting. Till now there has not been a single age of true peace. And the few short intervals that we call peace—those too are false peace. In that very peace the preparations for war go on. In times of war we fight, and in times of peace we prepare for the next war.
A neighbor asked a small child, “I see you always collecting coins in a little box. Where do you get those coins, and what do you do with them when you have collected enough?” The child said, “Every night I have to drink medicine and oil to keep my liver working. And when I gulp down a dose, I get a reward of four annas. Those coins I put in my box.”
The neighbor asked, “And what do you do with the money you collect?” The child said, “With that money my father buys more medicine and oil. He buys again the liver-tonic.” The neighbor was astonished. “What a vicious circle!” he said.
So it is with us: a few days of peace—and in that peace we make arrangements for another war. Then we fight. And we fight in order to find peace. Then when we are ‘peaceful,’ we prepare again for war. In wartime we cry for peace; in peacetime we clamor for war. A very strange tale, a tale of circles!
And if this were only today’s question—if it were merely contemporary—we might find some mistake in the modern world and correct it. But the question is perennial. One cannot simply say that because the world has become materialistic, therefore there are wars. Wars have always been. Whether in the time of Rama or of Krishna, whether it was the ‘Rama-rajya’ or any other rajya—wars have always been. They are not the product of materialism. Nor is it true, as some say, that because people have become unbelievers in God, have stopped believing in Atman-Paramatman, therefore there are wars. That is false, because wars have always been—and even those who believed in Atman and Paramatman fought wars.
First, then, I want to say: this problem is eternal. It has haunted the entire humanity up to now. It is not a modern question. And whoever mistakes it for a modern question will not be able to find its solution. The disease is ancient. Therefore we must search the whole history of the human race for its cause. What could the cause be? From wars, nothing is obtained except suffering; then what attracts man to war, to unrest, to killing? What flavor, what enjoyment is there? We need to understand two or three things about this.
First: One morning, from Tokyo airport, an airplane took off. As it rose, the passengers felt uneasy; the plane was flying most erratically. Then, with a violent jerk, it climbed up. And from the pilot’s cabin came loud peals of laughter—such laughter as if he had gone mad. A passenger peeped in and asked, “What on earth are you laughing at? You’re rolling on the floor!” The pilot said, “A huge joke has happened! They had locked me in a madhouse. I escaped from there—and I am thinking how much trouble the asylum staff must be in, not knowing where I’ve vanished! What a joke on those poor fellows!”
Do you understand what must have happened to the passengers? The pilot is insane, escaped from an asylum, and has taken the plane into the sky—and he says the joke is on the asylum staff. Forget the staff for a while—what of the people sitting in that plane? For them the joke is far more deadly.
Up to now, humanity has been in almost the same condition. The helm of society is in the hands of politicians, and the politician has been, from the beginning, a madman—deranged, neurotic. Try as we may to create peace in the world, until there is a radical change in the very direction of politics, no peace can be established. The politician is fundamentally insane. This politician is, at the root, deranged. He needs treatment—so that a healthy politician may be born. Otherwise, no prayer, no proposal can bring peace to the world. The tiller of society is in the hands of madmen! The reins of humanity rest in insane hands.
Why is the politician mad? Understand this. For thousands of years we have worshiped politicians; that’s why it is difficult even to hear me calling them mad. But the very desire to dominate others is proof of a deranged mind. The longing to ride upon everyone’s chest is the symptom of a diseased psyche. A healthy man neither wants to be anyone’s master, nor to sit on anyone’s head.
The world’s insane gather in the various capitals of the world. And all the power is in the hands of these madmen. Look back: Nadir, Genghis, Tamerlane; Stalin or Hitler or Mussolini or Tojo or Mao Tse-tung—if a day ever dawns when humanity becomes sane, can these people be called anything other than mad? Can Hitler and Mussolini be called anything other than insane—or Napoleon and Alexander? All these madmen have hounded the human race. If they cannot lead us into peace, how can they not drag us into war?
What is the politician’s aspiration? What does he want? He wants shakti—power. He wants his fist on the necks of others. The more people over whose backs he can climb, the more ownership he can claim, the more gratified he feels. This is a highly pathological desire. One person becoming the owner of another is itself dangerous, itself indecent. Whoever craves such a thing cannot be healthy.
Yet, the more people a man rules, the higher the post he occupies, the more our heads bow at his feet.
As long as humanity keeps bowing at the feet of the politician, there is no hope of peace. If we want to save the world from war, we must change our values regarding the politician. If we go on honoring those who create war, unrest, and violence, how can wars cease? Our values are wrong; our reverence is misplaced. And our reverence is given only to politicians, to no one else. Why is politics honored so much? What is the need? What is the meaning?
In a house there is a cook. He looks after the family’s meals, brings provisions from the market, and tries to cook the best food. Good—he is a cook; he deserves respect. A big hotel serves five hundred meals a day; there too is a head cook who oversees everything. He too deserves respect. There is a food minister in a province—the province’s grand cook. Why should we bend our heads at his feet? He deserves no more respect than any skilled cook. Why this mad, extravagant veneration?
The day humanity becomes a little healthy, the food minister of a province will get only as much respect as a competent master cook deserves—no more. Anything beyond that is wrong. And the same applies to other ministers. A health minister should be respected as a village doctor is respected. Yes, he oversees the health of a whole province. A sanitation minister should be respected like the village’s chief sweeper. He is the province’s sweeper; he looks after cleanliness for all. He should be honored—because he is doing a job.
But our honor has gone out of all proportion. If that grand cook of the province sneezes, it must be in all the newspapers. If his shoe is lost, it must be photographed. The entire nation should discuss that the minister’s shoe is missing, or that the minister’s child has caught a cold, or that his peon was run over by a car today. Such honor draws all manner of mad, ambitious people into the direction of politics. The ambitious crazies see only one road—head for the capital! One must get to Delhi!
I have heard that even a dog in Banaras went mad in the same way. Animals go insane by imitating men. Living with men, even animals pick up bad habits. A dog lived for a few days in a leader’s house; his head went wrong. Living with the leader and seeing his photograph in the newspapers, the dog too felt, “My picture should be in the paper.” He went to some village dogs and said, “Make me a leader and send me to Delhi!”
The dogs began to laugh. “Since when did you pick up the bad habits of men?” they asked. He told others; they mocked him: “He’s gone crazy!”
He was deeply troubled, for he wanted to go to Delhi, not as an ordinary traveler, but as a leader. If the dogs elected him and sent him, in Delhi he would be honored. But the dogs laughed.
One night, when his master, the leader, was fast asleep, the dog went near and whispered, “Master! My heart too longs to go to Delhi. Teach me the tricks to become a leader so I can reach Delhi. I ask the dogs, they laugh.”
In his sleep the leader heard and said, “Son, if you want to go to Delhi, it isn’t easy. There are techniques, trade secrets. Not everyone can reach Delhi. It’s no joke that you think you will get there! Reaching moksha is easier; reaching Delhi is very difficult. But if you insist—you are not an ordinary dog, you are a great leader’s dog, my dog—I will tell you the tricks.
“First thing: go among the dogs and spread the news that the dog community is in danger. Just as some say Islam is in danger, others say Hindu dharma is in danger, or India is in danger, or China is in danger—the first sutra of politics is: create an air of danger. Go, tell the dogs that the dog race is under grave threat. The municipal mayor is thinking of giving out poison pills to kill dogs. The enemies of dogs are after them. Go, spread this propaganda.”
The dog said, “That’s right. I had not thought of this.”
“And then, tell them that you have resolved—whether your life remains or not—you will save the dog race. Tell them that too.
“If you find little puppies—college-going pups—tell them: Children, your future is in danger! You will not find jobs even after education! It is necessary to take power away from the old. Incite the young against the elders. And declare: I have pledged myself to serve the coming generation; I am your servant. Stir the pups against the old.
“If you meet the female dogs, tell them: Ladies, you must have equal rights with the males. Do not remain behind. Equality! All over the world women have claimed equal rights; how long will you lag? Revolt! Revolution! I am the servant of womanhood; I want to serve you.
“If you meet poor dogs, inflame them against the rich dogs. Teach them communism. If you meet rich dogs, say: Be vigilant! The poor are about to revolt. But do not be afraid—as long as I am here, I will not let your honor be touched.”
The dog asked, “What if both poor and rich dogs happen to be present together—what shall I say then?”
“You fool,” said the leader, “then speak of Sarvodaya—that we seek the uplift of all. We want the uplift of the poor and of the rich. We want the uplift of the thief and the moneylender. We want the uplift of the sick and of the doctor. We want the welfare of all. This is the last trick: if all are present, speak of Sarvodaya; if only one is present, speak of his ‘odaya’—his rise.”
The dog was astonished. “Only this much? And we were worrying for nothing!” He ran out and began work that very night.
These things slipped out of the leader in his sleep. He must have been a somewhat raw leader—for the true, seasoned leaders do not tell the truth even in sleep.
The dog started his campaign. A storm swept the dogs of Kashi; a movement began. The dogs were terrified. Their lives were in danger! They became fearful, and they began to beg him, “Save us! You are our leader now; go to Delhi as our representative.” The dog refused again and again. He began to wear a khadi cap, he folded his hands and kept saying, “What will I do in Delhi? I am a servant of the people; what have I to do with Delhi?” But the more he refused, the more the dogs pressed him, garlanded him, and cried, “You must go to Delhi!” At last, out of ‘helplessness,’ he agreed—just as all leaders ‘helplessly’ agree to go to Delhi.
The dogs sent word to the Delhi dogs: “Our leader is coming; he is an elected leader. Prepare a worthy reception.” The Delhi dogs were delighted. They were tired of welcoming human leaders. “Our own leader is coming—what joy!” they said. “Be assured. We will arrange everything—reservations in the circuit house and all.” “But when will you arrive?” they asked.
The message came back: “It will take a month.” The poor dog planned to go on foot. He had not yet learned to use human vehicles. He set out on foot for Delhi.
The Delhi dogs were amazed: instead of a month, he arrived in seven days. “We are astonished,” they said. “Human leaders take a lifetime to get to Delhi; you came in seven days!”
The dog said, “Don’t ask what I suffered. Now I understand! When I left Kashi, the dogs accompanied me to the village boundary. At the next village, their dogs set upon me and did not let me rest. Before those could even escort me to their boundary, the dogs of the next village were chasing me. All the way to Delhi, dogs from one village after another were on my heels. They would escort me to their boundary and turn back, and the next lot would begin the chase. I fled for my life without a moment’s rest—that is why I reached in seven days. But speak no more; my breath is short, my life seems to be slipping—I feel close to death.”
The Delhi dogs said, “Don’t be frightened. Often leaders come to Delhi and die. Delhi is the grave of many leaders. For thousands of years it has been a graveyard. A leader comes here—and dies. It is very hard for a leader to leave here alive.”
Saying this, the dog died.
What happened afterward I don’t know. But whether a dog must get to Delhi or a man—the tricks are the same, the road is the same. And apart from madness, what else could give a man such an intense craving for power, position, prestige?
Why do I say this craving is born of madness? Because a healthy man is delighted simply in his being. His very being is joy. The unhealthy, the diseased man has no joy in being. He who has joy in his own being—he alone is healthy; the one settled in himself is healthy. He who finds no joy in himself tries to become happy by giving pain to others. He tries to feel good by torturing others. The more he can hurt, the more he feels, “I am somebody, I can do something.” The madman seeks the pleasure of oppressing others.
And to oppress others—if a man becomes a husband, at most he can torture his wife. If a wife goes mad with the urge to torture, at most she can torture her husband. If, by the children’s misfortune, some are born, then together they can torture the children. What more? If this does not suffice, a man turns to oppressing a large crowd. Then he has no choice but to become a politician, for only the politician has a crowd under his control.
Those with a tendency to give pain, to be sadists, to torture—these start their journeys toward the capitals. Not only in India—in Moscow, Washington, Peking, London, Paris, and Delhi—the same thing happens. All the ambitious, diseased people of the world gather in the capitals. And among them, the maddest becomes the chief—because the strongest madman subjugates the lesser madmen. Hence the world has drifted through war upon war for three thousand years. How can there be peace in such hands? Their very value depends upon war continuing.
Hitler wrote that great leaders are born of war. He wrote: great leaders are born of war. Without war a leader cannot become great. When war erupts, danger arises. With danger, the entire populace folds its hands at the leader’s feet: “You alone can save us! You are our God! Without you who will protect us?” And the leader grows bigger and bigger.
So Hitler wrote in his autobiography: if there is no real danger, no real war, then anyone who wants to be a leader should manufacture false dangers, stage fake wars.
In Vietnam and Korea, fake wars are being run—without need, without purpose. Between India and Pakistan—fake wars, meaningless. Between India and China—the same story.
No one can become a great leader otherwise. Mao cannot become a great leader if he does not keep war simmering. With wars, Mao becomes great. If, in the last ten years, China had not been mischievous, you might not have even heard Mao’s name. If Hitler had not unleashed the Second World War, you might not have heard of Hitler. If Genghis Khan had not slaughtered people, how would you have heard his name? If Tamerlane had not entered capitals to behead infants—wherever he went, he had ten thousand children beheaded, their heads pierced onto spears, so that when his procession passed, ten thousand little heads bobbed on spear tips. People asked, “Tamerlane, what are you doing? Why kill children?” He said, “So that this land will remember that Tamerlane once came here.”
Do not be angry if I call Tamerlane mad. He is mad.
Hitler had the skin of a very beautiful woman flayed and made into the shade of his table lamp—for Hitler’s lamp could not be covered with ordinary paper, leather, or plastic. If I call this Hitler mad, do not be offended.
Hitler personally ordered that five hundred Jews be killed each day. He killed five million Jews in his lifetime. Daily, five hundred—his religious vow. But killing one by one became expensive—killing and then disposing of the bodies—so he built gas chambers and electric crematoria. Lock five hundred inside, press a button, and they become ash. No need to shoot, no need for soldiers. He built gas chambers across Germany and burned five million Jews.
Stalin, in his time, killed six million people in Russia.
If I call these men mad, do not be offended. The people you lock in asylums are children beside them. Compared to them, the madness of those in asylums is nothing. As long as such madmen rule, how can there be peace in the world?
In ancient days the danger was less, for these madmen did not have much power. Now they do. They have atom bombs, hydrogen bombs. Unprecedented power has fallen into their hands. They will not spare humanity—they will surely bring a kind of peace to the world—the peace of the cremation ground. No one left—and total silence.
A woman brought her child to a doctor early one morning. While she discussed her illness, the child slipped into the laboratory. The doctor, nervous, kept talking with the woman; from inside came noises—a bottle crashing, a chair falling, pages being torn. The doctor was anxious, but the woman didn’t seem worried at all hearing her child’s sounds.
When a large cabinet crashed and many vials broke, the woman said, “It seems Munna has gone inside. Is there any danger? Any disturbance?” The doctor said, “Now be at ease. Munna will very soon reach the cupboard where the poison is kept. Very soon there will be perfect peace. Don’t worry; sit quietly.” The woman panicked and rushed in, but by then Munna had drunk a vial of poison—and he was finished.
Man’s condition is the same. These political ‘Munna’ have reached the cupboard of poison. If they drank alone and died, there would be no danger—but along with them, the whole of humanity will have to die. It was alright when they were breaking a few bottles and tearing a few registers—but now they are at the poison cupboard. Since the day a politician’s hand reached the atom bomb, the means to tranquilize humanity fell into their hands—absolute ‘peace’ will come. Munna will very soon be quiet—because he has reached the poison bottles. But along with him, all of humanity will be quiet. And that will not be the peace we have longed for and dreamed of for thousands of years. Not the peace in which there are flowers and fragrance; not the peace where there are songs and dances; it will be the peace of the graveyard, of the cremation ground—dead silence, because no one remains.
Great power has fallen into human hands—hence the danger. If this power remains with mad politicians, there is little hope that this earth will survive beyond ten or twenty-five years. If it does, it will be by sheer coincidence, by miracle.
Fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are ready. One hydrogen bomb destroys all life within forty thousand square miles—not in an ordinary way, but in an extraordinary way. It does not only kill people—it annihilates insects, small creatures, plants—life itself.
At home we heat water; at a hundred degrees it boils and turns to steam. If we put someone in water at a hundred degrees, what happens to his mind? What poetry arises? What joy springs within? But a hundred degrees is no heat. At fifteen hundred degrees iron melts and flows like water. If we put someone into that—what would happen? But fifteen hundred degrees is still nothing; at twenty-five hundred degrees iron turns to vapor. If twenty-five hundred degrees were ignited in your house—what then? Yet even twenty-five hundred degrees is nothing. A hydrogen bomb explosion generates heat of one hundred million degrees. One hundred million degrees—and the destructive field spans forty thousand square miles.
Such fifty thousand hydrogen bombs lie in the hands of politicians who look plain and simple, smiling for photographs day and night. What will they do with them? What will be the result? What will happen to this world? This earth is small. For the destructive power we possess, even seven earths would be too few. Humanity’s number is small—only three to three and a half billion. We have arranged weapons to kill twenty-five billion.
Ask them why such a vast arrangement? They will say, “It is not good to risk a mistake. Suppose a man does not die the first time—we shall kill him again, a third time. We have arranged to kill each person seven times.” Though no one has ever needed to be killed twice, still, no mistakes! These are mathematicians, intelligent, calculating. They did all the math—“Arrange to kill each person seven times, so that none survive.”
We have surplus capacity for murder and destruction. And in whose hands? In the hands of those whose minds are filled neither with love nor with joy nor with peace—who are sick, unhealthy, deranged. With knives alone they did enough wonders; with swords, they did astounding feats; with small guns, they trampled the world. Now they hold such power that what they can do defies computation.
Wars cannot stop if the politician remains as he is. The value of the politician must be reduced to zero. His prestige must become nothing. He should be respected only as a functionary—a cook, a sweeper, a doctor, a shopkeeper. Anything more is dangerous. Because honor itself attracts mad people to politics. The ambitious flock there because honor, power, prestige can be had. If the world is to be saved from wars, politics must be devalued utterly.
In ancient Rome it once happened that the women invented such hideous, vulgar garments that to look at them became offensively ugly. A craze started. Naked they would have been less obscene than in those new clothes.
The emperor was at a loss. He asked his ministers for counsel. They said, “Impose a fine of a hundred coins on any woman wearing such clothes.” The king announced that from a certain date, whosoever wore such clothes would be fined a hundred.
He thought the women would be frightened. Why would women be frightened of fines? The reverse occurred. Any woman fined would look at others and say, “I have been fined three times!” Another would say, “What’s your count? I’ve been fined seven times!” The fine became prestige. Poor women began shouting at their husbands, “Bad luck that I married you—we haven’t been fined even once! When will my fine happen? Buy me the clothes!” The richer the woman, the more daily fines she paid. It became a status symbol—so many fines, wife of so-and-so, so rich! Tailors hung signs: “Fines guaranteed with our designs.”
Within three months the town went mad. Poor women too took to wearing them—else people would call them poor. Women began asking one another, “You haven’t been fined yet? That neighbor hasn’t been fined even once—poor thing!” The king was terrified. He went to a fakir and asked, “What is this madness? We imposed fines to stop them!”
The fakir said, “Do this. Put up notices everywhere: Prostitutes are exempt from fines for wearing such garments. They are granted full freedom.” Placards went up: “Prostitutes may wear these clothes—no fines.” On the third day, those garments vanished from the town. No woman was willing to be counted a prostitute. The prestige of those clothes became zero.
Near a girls’ high school by a busy highway, the girls used to cross the road straight through traffic; it was dangerous. The principal tried to persuade them: “Don’t cross here. Go to the intersection a little distance away.” The girls did not listen; accidents increased.
The principal consulted a psychologist. He gave a signboard: “Cattle Crossing.” The moment it was installed—this is where animals cross—the girls stopped crossing there and went to the intersection. Who would want people to think cows and buffaloes were passing?
The value of a thing must fall. To dissuade mad, ambitious people from entering politics, the value of the politician must be reduced. Fewer photos, fewer speeches, fewer headlines, less talk across the land. People should become wary of politicians as they are wary of diseases. Parents should say to their children, “Come inside—the leader is passing.” If a rally is happening nearby, the family should shut the doors—“Stay inside; there’s a rally.” We need protection from the leader, from the politician.
First point: the devaluation of the politician.
Once Buddha entered a village. He was a bhikkhu. The king heard and asked his minister, “Should I go to receive him? Would it be proper?” The minister said, “I am astonished that you ask. He who has valued all wealth at two coppers, who sees gold as dust, who gives no price to prestige, nothing to rank—when he comes to a village, all should go to welcome him. You should go, so that people may know that real honor is not for position but for humility; not for ego, but for egolessness.”
The king asked his queen, “The minister says I should go—but is it proper? I am a sovereign, and to welcome a beggar?” The queen said, “You should be ashamed to call him a beggar. We are the beggars—begging day and night, ‘More, more, more.’ He is not a beggar; he is the emperor. He has stopped asking. He asks for nothing. All begging has ceased in him. We beggars must go to receive that emperor.” The emperor went to welcome him.
A world must be born in which those emperors are honored who possess nothing—rather than those emperors who possess rank and prestige.
To honor the politician is to unbalance the whole mind of a nation, to push all humanity toward madness. Because then even children’s minds are drawn that way.
Radhakrishnan was a teacher; he became President. All over India teachers began celebrating Teachers’ Day. By mistake I was in Delhi and some teachers invited me. I went and said, “I am astonished. A teacher becomes a politician—and you celebrate a teachers’ day? What honor of the teacher is in this? It is an insult to the teacher—that a teacher did not find joy in being a teacher and turned toward politics. The day a President resigns and becomes a teacher in a school—saying, ‘I don’t want to be President, I want to be a teacher’—celebrate Teachers’ Day. Now there is no need. The day a President says he wants to teach, that day the teacher is honored. But when a school teacher says, ‘I want to be a minister, a President’—what honor of the teacher is that? It is the honor of the politician.”
When one teacher becomes President and we honor him, other teachers go mad: “Let us become something too; if not minister, then deputy minister; if not, at least deputy director or director—something! Our elder became President; one teacher became President; now another has become President; now all teachers run in circles so that a third teacher may become President.”
If we keep producing such madness by honoring politicians, there will never—never—be peace. The ambitious man wants to fight; he does not want to be quiet. If he becomes quiet, ambition dies.
So first: the respect given to politicians should vanish. If we have a little intelligence, we must free ourselves from honoring politicians—if we want to escape wars and establish peace. The day the politician ceases to be honored, the day people will say to anyone who tries to lead them into war, “Get down! You have no right to lead anyone into war!”—that day wars will cease. Now, the more a politician drags a nation toward war, the more honor he gets. The country, mad as it is, says, “Here is a real leader, our savior, our protector.” That is the first point.
The second point—equally essential: Even if politics is devalued, alone it will not suffice. Up to now we have advised the good man, the noble man, the sannyasin: withdraw from life. The good withdraw; the bad run the world. The good vacate places; the bad occupy them. The saint flees; the un-saint sits firm. The good retreat, the bad remain. It is thus inevitable that whenever power rests in evil hands, there will be wars and unrest. Power should be in the hands of the good; the reins of life should be in the hands of a healthy, saintly character. But how will this be? No saintly person will come to you and say, “Give me your vote; I am a good man.” How? All over the world, those able to advertise their own egos come and say, “Vote for me; I want the chair. I am good; the other is bad.” They gather in numbers and concentrate power. The good will not come to your door to say so.
Engrave this as a criterion: when someone comes proclaiming, “I am a good man,” it is the sign of a bad man. When someone asks for your vote, it is the sign of a cunning, dishonest man. All over the world we must understand—if power is to be given to the good, he will not ask for it. You will have to go to him and beg: “Accept our request; there is this little work to be done—please do it. We wish to place this responsibility in your hands.”
The world must now learn to entrust work to the good. Then the bad may step back. But the good will not beat drums, stand before your house, and fold hands for votes. To persuade the good to accept power is difficult. This is the danger; the bad get the opportunity. The good will not come; the bad stand in front and shout.
Worse: two bad men shout. You choose between them; they are cousins. It makes no difference whether you choose A or B—Congress or Jan Sangh or Socialist or Communist—they are all cousins, all men intoxicated with power. One shouts, “Vote for me!” Another shouts, “No, for me!” You choose among them—and the mistake is made.
We must prepare public consciousness across the world to search out those who can run life and give direction. Catch hold of them, beseech them—they will refuse, fold their hands, and say, “Forgive us; we are fine where we are”—but we must bring the good from their huts, their hermitages, their forests. We must place power in their hands. Then the world can be saved—otherwise not. No matter how many conferences politicians hold, how many UNOs are created, how much they shout, “We want peace!”—nothing will come of it. The mad pilot is at the controls, and we are all in the plane.
Second, then: the direction of life must be placed in the hands of the good. If that can be done, world peace can be established today; there is no need to wait for tomorrow.
But for thousands of years the pattern has been that the good withdraw. The good do not say, “I will do something; I will go somewhere.” They quietly slip into a corner, stand behind, indifferent to standing in front. The bad dress up, don the leader’s clothes, step forward, smile as leaders smile, fold their hands as leaders fold them. And the simple, innocent people are deceived by the smile, by the clothes. They do not know that white clothes are used to hide black hearts, that smiles are used to cover evil intentions, that joined hands are tricks to conceal a giant ego. This is how it has been—and if it goes on, I do not see how world peace can be.
We must awaken public intelligence everywhere—teach people what to do: dissolve the honor of the politician; and request the good to strengthen the hands of life, to take the reins. Only in the hands of those without a hankering for power can power be safe; only in the hands of those who value power not at all can power be used rightly; only those who have no desire to sit above others are worthy to be seated above. The world must be entrusted to the good, the simple, the straightforward—or it will not be saved. There is no other possibility. These are the two things.
And the third thing.
Two things—devalue politics; enlist the good in shaping life; save them from fleeing. And third: you must lift your own mind above the foolishness and whirlpool of politics. Because we are all, in small meanings, small politicians. As far as our power reaches, we are emperors there; there we play politics. If every person plays politics within his little circle, then there will be quarrel, conflict, violence in those circles—and all that violence, gathered together, becomes great wars.
So, thirdly, I say to you personally: wherever politics exists in your life… for politics means dishonesty, cunningness, hypocrisy—the crooked way, never straight and clear. Each person should strive to live with a straight, clear face—as he is—without garments, without covers—joined to life along straight paths. Each person should remove politics from his life. Then, on a larger scale, politics can be removed from the world.
Hearing the first two, you might feel I have spoken of others; and listening to others’ faults is very delightful. It feels good to think, “This is about the people of Delhi.” But you too have made a small Delhi without knowing. You think, “This is about ministers”—and yet, given the chance, you too become a minister. Given the chance, you descend into the same cunningness without noticing.
How do you behave with your servant? With your child? With your wife? What are you doing to those weaker than you, those under your power? Whatever you do there, the politician does on a larger scale. Therefore, each person must free his life from politics.
In the end, politics simply means ambition.
And religion means non-ambition.
The politician lives to get ahead of others. The religious lives to get ahead of himself. The politician says, “I must go beyond others.” The religious says, “I must go beyond myself—what have I to do with others? Let me not be where I am today. Let me transcend myself. What I have known today, let me know more tomorrow. What I have lived today, let me live more deeply tomorrow. Let the depth I touched today be deeper tomorrow; the height I reached today be higher tomorrow.” No comparison with anyone, no conflict, no competition. There are only two kinds of people in the world—political and religious. Two kinds of minds—political and religious. Search within: are you not also a political mind? Are you not a politician inside?
Transform the politician within you into the religious; devalue politics in the whole world; and entrust the direction and reins of life to saintly, simple, straight people. If these three things can happen, world peace is easier than anything else. And if these three do not happen, abandon the dream of peace. Wars will continue—and perhaps the final war will arrive, after which there will be no wars.
One last tale, and I will finish. Albert Einstein died and reached heaven. You must have heard—he died. He was the one who launched the whole lineage of the atom bomb—that old philosopher-scientist, a wonder. God was waiting to ask him about the earth. He asked Einstein, “What is the state of the world? I hear a third world war is about to happen. My heart trembles; my sleep is ruined. Even sleeping pills do not help. I am in trouble. I feel I might go mad.”
Einstein said, “Why worry? We on earth sleep well—why are you troubled? About the third war, it is hard to say. But about the fourth, I can tell.”
God was stunned. “You cannot say about the third—and you can about the fourth?”
Einstein said, “About the third nothing can be said; about the fourth, one thing can be stated with certainty—there will be no Fourth World War.”
Because to wage war, men are ultimately needed. Without men, how can there be war? And after the third, there is little chance of any men remaining. If things go on as they have, the old Einstein is right—the fourth will never be. There will be peace in the world—immense peace. The moon and stars will be very peaceful—man has made too much noise. Perhaps then trees will grow and blossoms will open, and trees will feel great peace—man had created too much disturbance. Mountains and glaciers and rivers will flow in peace. But that peace will not be experienced by man. Others may know it—not man.
If man wants peace, he must do something positive, constructive—he must transform his way of life, his modes and manners. Till now, his way of conducting life has been sick, deranged, mad.
These few things I have said.
You have listened with such silence and love—I am deeply obliged.
In the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated in all. Please accept my pranam.